


Perm

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Hair Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 00:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5353697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond discovers and deals with Lindir’s wild hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perm

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “I saw this silly idea on tumblr where Lindir had curly hair but straightened it because it's a rare thing among Elves and everyone else has straight hair. I want a story where someone (or everyone) finds out about his hair and he's super embarrassed. Also, hair kink because yes. Pulling, braiding, whatever. All of it. He could be paired with anyone or make it multiple or just friendship. Doesn't have to be smutty, though that would be nice. Optional +Elrond/Lindir +he's stuck in public with his hair curly for some reason +it's interesting so he gets a lot of (positive) attention he can't handle +Glorfindel somehow getting involved because he gets drawn with poofy hair a lot” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25723394#t25723394).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The spring festival, like most of their ceremonies, is merely an excuse to bring smiles and laughter. Minstrels especially look forward to this occasion and are strewn evenly about the decorated courtyards, plucking harps and occasionally singing stories. Elrond hopes, as he often does, to find Lindir among them, but it seems he hasn’t yet broken Lindir out of his tentative shell. What’s more surprising is for Lindir not to greet Elrond as he descends the steps from his chambers. Elrond joins the milling crowd on his own, first greeted by Arwen with a flower garland in her hair, then Elladan and Elrohir on their way to the nearest banquet table. They’ve taken their leave when Elrond notices a common threat to the chatter around him: Lindir’s name.

The closest knot of elves discussing Elrond’s normally inconspicuous attendant consists of Erestor and Glorfindel. Elrond joins them but has no chance to speak; Glorfindel asks first, wearing a knowing smile, “Have you seen your assistant yet, Lord Elrond?”

“No,” Elrond answers levelly, having to face Glorfindel to gauge a reaction and therefore forced to turn away from a servant circulating drinks. “Should I have?”

“Glorfindel is considering emulating him,” Erestor fills in, both of their grins growing. Elrond’s frown remains, mostly out of confusion. Though Elrond values Lindir as highly as Glorfindel, he wouldn’t imagine such an experienced, revered warrior paying much heed to a somewhat quiet attendant. Elrond means to ask more, but Erestor turns abruptly to Glorfindel and reaches to stroke dark fingers through his sunshine-yellow hair. Glorfindel laughs as Erestor finger-combs the waves over his shoulders, and Elrond nods his head in a polite retreat—when they become like this, he finds it unwise to linger with them.

Now he keeps his eyes open as he weaves through the crowd, looking over too many sets of long, brown hair in search of a specific one. He’s circled three courtyards before the glimmer of the sun off a familiar circlet catches his eye, and he turns to spot Lindir’s handsome face disappearing quickly behind a pillar.

Elrond heads straight there, pleased when Lindir doesn’t run, but seems, instead, to be shrunk into the shadows cast by the column, tucked away from the rest of the festivities. The crowd is only a dull murmur in the background, distanced by various statues and bushes. Elrond steps into the near-hidden alcove, only to halt abruptly, becoming rigid. 

Lindir, face dusted a pretty pink, bows his head and murmurs, “My lord, I... I apologize for not greeting you... I did not think I should be seen publicly, although of course I would not miss my lord’s celebration. I know it is no excuse to be remiss in my duties, I am deeply sorry...” Lindir’s voice is slightly shaky, unsure, and it trails off, while Elrond struggles to say... anything. 

He’s always found Lindir incredibly tempting. Lindir is _beautiful_ , and loyal, kind, wondrously artful, and so many other things. Pining after a young songbird is unbecoming on an elf of Elrond’s years, yet now he can feel his own cheeks warming, hopefully not as much so as his assistant’s. He looks at Lindir in utter shock. He’s sure he’s staring rudely. But he’s spent many years with Lindir, greeting his seductive looks every morning and treasuring them throughout the day, sometimes guiltily conjuring the image at night, and Lindir has only ever appeared one way: slick, polished, straight-lined and immaculate.

Yet now Lindir’s hair is a wild mess, puffed into large waves, some spots in tight curls and others in loose rivulets, spilling all down his shoulders and his back with sultry volume and, even in the shadows, incredible luster. He looks as though he’s been laid down in bed and had his hair deliberately combed through with many greedy fingers, tugged and used as reigns and rearranged for a lover’s selfish pleasure. His circlet barely fits around his forehead. Elrond doesn’t know what to say. He wishes it had been _his_ hands to create such a nest atop his songbird, but he restrains himself from such inappropriate suggestions.

In his gaping wake, Lindir swallows and whispers, still looking down, “I apologize deeply for my appearance. The tool I normally use to straighten my awful hair and make myself presentable broke this morning.”

The spell finally breaking, Elrond counters, “It is hardly awful.” Lindir’s eyes flicker up, disbelieving. Before Elrond can stop himself, he’s reaching across the short distance between them. He brushes his fingertips along one chestnut wave cascading over Lindir’s shoulder. Lindir blushes all the harder.

“Everyone is laughing at me,” he insists, albeit quietly.

Now Elrond understands. He can’t help a small, fond smile. Threading his fingers deeper into Lindir’s hair, he gently promises, “My dear Lindir, they are _admiring_ you.”

Lindir’s brow knits together. He doesn’t appear convinced, though he isn’t in the habit of offering Elrond rebuttals. Instead, he glances down at the hand at his shoulder, now murmuring, “...Please, my lord. Do not concern yourself with me. Please, enjoy your festival. I... I will still attend to you, if you should wish...”

Of course Elrond should wish it. He normally doesn’t have to ask; Lindir always follows after him without prompting. It’s not something he _would_ ask, especially on a day not meant for work. Elrond begrudgingly pulls his hand away before he tempts himself any further and answers, “That is never necessary. I am saddened that you cannot see your own value enough to enjoy this day as well, but I do not wish you to be uncomfortable.” Then, almost as an afterthought, Elrond muses, “Is there anything that I could do...? Braid it, perhaps...”

Lindir is now completely red and mumbles sullenly, “It takes far too long in this state for me to braid my own hair to the base of my skull, which this would require to hide my shame.”

Elrond releases an internal sigh but doesn’t bother to fight such unfounded _shame_. Like most things, he’ll simply have to add it to the list of ways that Elrond is slowly trying to uplift Lindir, long-term and lasting. 

In the moment, Elrond walks swiftly around Lindir before any protests can come. Lindir glances over his shoulder, but Elrond comes right up behind him and begins to divide the massive curtain into three sections. It requires more contact than he would normally allow himself, but he’s well practice in self-restraint, and Lindir doesn’t move away. He meekly mutters, “My lord, you should not have to...”

But Elrond replies swiftly, “I wish to,” and Lindir quiets. They have the same dialogue every time Elrond tries to help Lindir. Lindir fights these tender moments less than he used to.

At first, the simple division is a surprisingly difficult task. The curls don’t seem to want to stay where he puts them, and a number of locks are intertwined with one another. The first knot Elrond tries to detangle gives Lindir a sudden hitch of breath. Elrond murmurs a quiet, “I am sorry,” and continues, but another unintentional tug follows shortly after, and Lindir gasps, then makes a stifled noise that Elrond is unsure of but thinks it might be pain. Just in case, he stills and asks, “Should I stop?”

“No,” Lindir murmurs, shaking his head lightly in Elrond’s gasp. So Elrond continues, unwinding one mess after another.

Soon he can begin his braid, though he must tie it unusually tight to tame the hefty waves—when he allows them even the tiniest bit of slack, they bulge out and look distinctly messy. It’s nothing Elrond minds, but he knows Lindir would prefer as clean a look as possible, and so Elrond endeavors to deliver that. The process is slow, maximizing their close proximity. The task is soothing and certainly enjoyable, but Elrond can’t help but feel tense; it requires much restraint. Lindir smells faintly of lavender. Several times, Elrond fears he’s pulled too tightly, because Lindir will gasp or shake. By the time Elrond finally reaches the end and is twisting it around to knot the end, Lindir is trembling. Elrond politely tries not to notice. The end requires a stronger pull to ensure it won’t come undone, and this, regrettably, tugs Lindir’s head back, his elegant neck arching, a gasp twisting out in a lewd, overtly erotic _moan_.

Elrond freezes again. He glances at Lindir’s face, turned away from him and quickly hidden with delicate hands. Elrond allows Lindir’s braid to fall, swaying down along his spine to reach his waist. Lindir doesn’t turn around. 

They’re silent.

Then something posses Elrond to take the braid again and tug it, experimental but too difficult to stop when he’s started, until Lindir is forced to bend, arching back so that his head hits Elrond’s shoulder, their bodies flattened together. Lindir’s flushed face is just as Elrond expected—pupils dilated, lashes half-lidded, lips wet from being licked and parted, his breath coming hard. His allure is intoxicating. Elrond looks down at his beauty and fights with himself over what to do next—whether or not he can justify taking what he wants, or at least offering it. 

The decision’s taken out of his hands when Lindir looks hazily up at him and moans, “M-my lord, I... I am sorry. Your hands in my hair... it is like... like something out of one of my darkest fantasies...”

Elrond lifts an eyebrow. Hair pulling is hardly _dark_ , though he’s sure it’ll now become a staple in his own nighttime musings. 

Thicker than he means to, Elrond suggests, “Perhaps we should retire to somewhere more... private... to deal with your unruly hair.” 

Lindir’s eyes dart to Elrond’s lips. He whines breathlessly, “I would love to be taken anywhere you should wish, my lord.” Elrond can’t decide or not if there’s a double meaning behind those words.

Either way, he steps away and tugs Lindir’s braid to make him follow, using it like a leash until they find the nearest private room.


End file.
